


hobo

by thefudge



Category: Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Library, Cunning Linguist, F/M, Library Sex, Modern AU, Skirts, and moooother we just can't get enough, i'm sorry i know i'm making it harder for the good ppl of AO3 to tag this, if you recognize the song
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-20
Updated: 2017-12-20
Packaged: 2019-02-17 07:36:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,958
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13072200
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thefudge/pseuds/thefudge
Summary: Modern AU. Rose is a bored librarian. DJ makes things interesting.





	hobo

**Author's Note:**

> Be the change you want to see in the world. Gandhi was, of course, referring to rare-pair smut.

Rose leans her elbows lavishly against the book trolley. She’s too tired to care about posture. It’s almost eight o’clock in the evening on a December and she hasn’t had any coffee. She doesn’t care if she looks like she’s slouching. There’s no one left to see her.

The reading rooms are empty.

Well, there’s the _hobo_.

But he doesn’t ever notice her. His head’s always stuck in a periodical.

She calls him hobo, but he probably has a place to sleep. He doesn’t smell bad and he changes clothes semi-regularly, though he’s always wearing that rusty old coat. It probably used to be dapper in his time. Probably all the rage when he was young, but now it just makes him look slightly derelict.

He’s not that _old_ , though. He’s only got a few silver streaks in his hair.

Jessika from upstairs calls him a “silver fox” and Rose gags every time. Because not only is that inappropriate, but it’s also a poor descriptor. The hobo is anything but a fox. He’s more like a tired raccoon.

She lets her head fall on her elbows. Maybe she should straighten up. Maybe she should get on with her work.

_One more minute._

She lets her eyes droop. She’s dozing against the trolley, ass sticking out in a very unladylike manner.  

She doesn’t see the “hobo” flick the newspaper away from his face. She doesn’t see him dart his head an inch.

He stares at her from his lamp-lit corner. His eyes betray nothing – no curiosity, no pleasure, no disturbance. But he stares and _stares_ until she suddenly wakes with a start.

Rose quickly pushes the trolley towards the shelves, rubbing the sleep from her eyes.

The hobo goes back to his reading, issuing a small grunt as he turns the page.

 

 

His cap. He’s left his cap on the desk. She knows it’s his because it’s got a crooked “DJ” stitched on it. She’s seen him pull it over his eyes when he’s particularly sleepy. He’s not the only individual to sleep in the library, she’s fully aware of that.  Hell, she’s been guilty of this once or twice and she works here.

But, what to do with his cap?

There’s a “lost and found” section downstairs yet somehow, she doesn’t feel comfortable dropping it there. Her palm is slightly sweaty as she crumples the cap in her fist. She can’t just leave it in the reading room. No - better to place it under her counter for safe-keeping. It smells like cigarettes and that strange musk that accompanies a particular set of city-dwellers.

 

 

When he shows up next Thursday and occupies his familiar spot in the reading room, he doesn’t show any sign of inadequacy. He doesn’t look for his cap. He simply sits down and flips open the newspaper, stretching his legs on the opposing chair.

She _should_ go tell him off. You’re not allowed to sit like that. You’re supposed to show some respect.

But she chickens out. She doesn’t have the best track record regarding posture. And…okay, the hobo is intimidating in his own way. The cut of his jaw, the slant of his eyes…he’s a little dangerous.

So she turns back to her computer and tries to ignore him. The cap is placed right above her knees.

 

 

She is listlessly playing Solitaire, waiting for the day to end. There’s a meatball sub waiting for her in the fridge at home and a full basket of laundry to get through. Not very enticing prospects, so she’s taking her time with this final game.

She doesn’t sense his presence until he’s _right_ in front of her, breathing in her space.

He’s tall enough that his breath ruffles her hair as he leans over the counter. Rose’s eyes dart upwards and freeze.

 _Hobo…too close…silver fox…_ is all that goes through her head.

He’s regarding her with aloof mischief, a combination that only he can replicate. He’s either younger or older than she thought.

“Um, can I help you?”

He glances sideways and sucks on his teeth for a moment, the gesture almost lewd. “You can give it back, sweetheart.”

His cap is under the counter, right above her knees. She stares at it for a moment. The easy thing would be to just hand it to him without a word.

But, as her sister Paige never tires of reminding her, Rose likes to get in trouble.

“Give what back?” she asks innocently.

He cocks his head to the side. His expression remains neutral, but she could swear there’s a spark in his eye.

“You gonna p-play it like that, huh?”

He’s got a strange stutter in his voice that sounds like he’s pulling your leg. She shouldn’t find it appealing. Nothing about him screams “Rose.”

She should really just give him the cap.

“Sorry,” she replies in a variation of Sweet Valley High, raising her shoulders. “I have no clue what you’re talking about.”

His voice slides into a husky tenor as he leans closer, narrowing her down with dizzying intensity.

“I bet you got your hand on it r-right now…” and his eyes dart lower in the forbidden space over the counter.

Son of a bitch is right. One of her fingers is slowly tracing the “DJ” on his cap.

Rose inhales sharply. “You’re welcome to check.”

He gives her a moment – almost like a reprieve to change her mind and end this little charade. But she doesn’t. And so, he doesn’t either.

He cocks his head further and lets one of his arms dangle over the counter, watching her face.

His fingers graze the top of her knee. Even through the jeans, she feels a small jolt.

He drags his forefinger in a question mark against her thigh. He does it again, until she parts her legs slightly.

 “You’re not…” he trails off, two fingers slipping between her thighs, “being a very helpful…librarian.”

Her jeans stick to her skin. She’s pretty sure he can tell. Her eyes are glassy and she can barely form coherent words. “Guess not.”

“Mm…gonna have to r-report you.”

Rose’s cheeks are flushed. She needs his fingers to slide in deeper.

“Do it.” And she probably means several things at once.

The hobo raises a wry eyebrow at her. He retracts his fingers slowly, painfully slow.  He dangles them over the counter, like a prize she can’t yet have.

And he smiles lazily. “Don’t tempt me.”

 

 

She slams the door to her tiny apartment, scaring her cat out of its stupor.  She slips out of her sneakers clumsily and rushes to her bedroom.

She falls down on the bed blissfully and slips a hand between her thighs.

Her cat meows in the distance.

She’s going to try and rationalize this later.

 

 

For the next three days, she wears a skirt to work. Jessika is the first to notice and comment on it.

“Is that _plaid_?”

Okay, so maybe she hasn’t worn something like this since she was sixteen. Sue her.

“I just…felt like a change. 'tis the season and all that,” she mumbles, toying with her half-moon necklace. Whenever she’s caught in a lie, she has the bad habit of reaching for it. She would definitely suck at poker.

Jessika narrows her eyes at her. “Uh-uh. Listen, is this about Finn?”

Rose wants to laugh. Her friend still thinks she has a crush on the delivery guy. I mean sure, he’s lovely and funny and gorgeous but he’s taken and he probably wouldn’t try to finger her over the counter. He’s a nice boy.

Not a hobo.

 

 

Of course, _he_ doesn’t pay attention to her at all. He pretends like nothing’s out of the ordinary.

He’s on a mission to infuriate her, because he doesn’t once raise his head from his newspaper as she stalks by with the book trolley. She does more rounds than she needs to, stacks and re-stacks the same books.

He is absorbed in his reading, spares her no further glance.

Rose feels slightly disheartened. Maybe this was a one-time thing, a bad joke that she wasn’t smart enough to brush off. He’s…probably some low-life with no job prospects, no aptitudes. He _can_ read, she supposes. And he’s…roguishly handsome.

But what else does he have to offer?

She doesn’t want to find out.

 

 

She’d like to ask the student who demanded Boethius’ full manuscript of _Consolatio Philosophiae_ if he hates her guts. The volume has a double iron-bind. She’d need a pair of thick gloves just to operate it.

She climbs on the stepladder gingerly, trying to operate the heft in her arms. She opens the dusty cabinet with one hand and tries to make room for the heavy manuscript. The volume starts to wobble precariously. She tries to catch it in time, but she almost loses her balance on the stepladder.

 _Shit_. This is a sequence meant for certain doom.

And she can almost see herself hitting the ground, spraining something vital.

When it doesn’t happen, she considers the immediate intervention of God. But help comes from lower quarters.

She feels the steadying warmth on the small of her back. He’s got one firm hand planted there, keeping her vertical. Boethius is abandoned somewhere at their feet, but this doesn’t seem to matter at all.

Rose wants to babble a thank you, but she’s afraid to ruin the moment. His hand slides from her back to the curve of her ass. Since she’s still wearing her plaid skirt, this particular detour makes her want to close her legs.

But he won’t let her. His fingers toy with the folds of her skirt, teasing the possibility of slipping into the dark lantern of her thighs.

Rose suppresses a whimper.  

His hand coasts lazily over the back of her leg, squeezing lightly.

“Gotta be more careful, sweetheart…”

Rose turns around shakily and faces him with an open face. She’s never been good at subterfuge. Everything must be written there.

He does not stir. His eyes are half-lidded.

He’s tall enough that even as she’s standing on the stepladder, she can reach his shoulders. She places her arms there, and he seems to understand. He picks her up easily and sets her down on the floor.

But he doesn’t let go immediately.

Rose clings to his slick, tattered coat. “Did you report me?”

He smiles down at her, but his eyes remain hungry and cold. “I’m waiting for s-strike three.”

_Strike three._

A third solitary occasion. What will he do then? What will _she_?

He sidesteps her with an elegant flourish, his eyes never leaving her face.

“You better clean that up,” he says, indicating the fallen Boethius.

Rose kneels down and grabs the manuscript. She stays that way for a few moments, with her thighs shut.

 

 

(Christmas Eve - she’s not spending it at home with her sister, baking cookies and decorating the tree. Instead, she invents a “staff party” that she wants to attend to encourage collegiate spirit.

“Maybe you’ll see Finn there,” Paige offers in sisterly support.

Rose says “maybe”. She puts on her best red dress.

She unlocks the reading room.

She lies down on the desk. He gently parts her legs, hitching up her dress. He slides her underwear down her knees and reads her like a newspaper.

Maybe he really is a hobo, because this feels like his first warm meal in a very long time.  

When she screams, there’s blissfully no one to hear her.)

 

 

Her hobo comes and goes. Some days it rains, some days it snows. But he always takes his seat in the corner, waiting for her.

She walks past, leaning on the trolley, and his fingers twitch against the newspaper.


End file.
